Dead Letter Drop
by Quoin
Summary: Remus is running a second-hand bookshop in Diagon Alley, a front for secret communications between the Order and its informants. But rushing to Harry's aid at the Department of Mysteries, he misses a vital clue in their war against Voldemort...
1. Chapter 1

— Chapter One —

_Setting the Scene_

On a day like any other, Remus Lupin descended the stairs from his attic room, to begin the morning rituals of dealing with the post and vandalism that his second-hand bookshop attracted in equal measure. It had the makings of a fine summer day, with the scent of flowers in the air—though that, he realised, was due more to the broken window pane in the door and the flower stall opposite than the bright June day dawning over London. Sunlight spilling through skylights above the bookshelves speared the worn carpet with shafts of light. Shattered glass littered the doormat like dew caught in the morning light, crunching slightly underfoot. He carefully retrieved the half-brick and added it to his collection stacked outside the back door, flicking his wand at the window and muttered _Reparo_ absently on his return.

He thumbed through the stack of post on the doorstep, discarding a handful into the fireplace along with the crumpled note that had been tied to the brick, and smiled—no Howlers today—and set to opening the legitimate correspondence of his bookshop: enquiries after obscure manuscripts, an invitation to an auction of out-of-print books, a rejection of his offer to purchase a number of valuable, though moth-eaten spell books from the estate of Tobias Hardcastle, deceased (_the estate maintains that the significant fire and Doxy damage sustained in the late seventeenth century adds character to the volumes, and therefore increases their value fourfold. With regret, your offer of a mere fifty galleons is declined. Yours, etc._), and a polite reminder about his rent—which, he suspected, was greatly in excess of his neighbours', but was just one of many things a person in his position had to put up with.

It had been worse in the months immediately following his resignation from Hogwarts; once Snape had seen to it that word got out, there was barely a landlord in the country that would let him near their property, and those that did charged him double. "Just had it decorated, got to cover my costs," he had been assured on more than one occasion, but more than likely it was for backhanders to his fellow tenants, covering their loss of earnings as members of the magical community voted with their feet on the issue of werewolves in society.

Two years on, most people were beginning to forget; he hadn't had a death threat in two weeks now, and the last time anyone had attempted to set fire to the shop was at least a month ago—little did they know about the charms and protections he'd set about the tumbledown building—but he still got the letters, threatening all manner of things he had long since given up reading about.

A tapping on the glass caught his attention; looking round a raven-black owl swooped away, low over the heads of the early morning traffic through Diagon Alley. It had left him a small, brown paper parcel, which looked considerably less interesting than the remarkable plumage of the owl that had delivered it.

It wasn't unusual for him to receive books by owl post—in fact, it was a large part of his work for the Order of the Phoenix. A number of informants and spies within the Ministry and the darker elements of the wizarding community regularly used his bookshop as a dead-letter drop to communicate with Dumbledore. But unwrapping the package, Remus knew at once it wasn't a message for the Order, since by agreement only books concerned with exotic birds were used for passing messages, and reading the subheading to the volume (_on the mating behaviours of the werewolf_) Remus had a feeling it was more likely a joke from Sirius.

There was nothing in it, not in _that_ way—which, of course, was the way Sirius had deliberately chosen to read it—but Remus might as well have been talking to himself for all the difference it made. He supposed it had more to do with Sirius being so bored, cooped up inside, than anything—and maybe a hint of jealousy—though Sirius was _more_ than welcome to try his hand with her if he liked, since (as Remus had pointed out on _many_ occasions) she was only a business associate. But Sirius wasn't in much of a position to do _anything_ these days, and Remus could see how it was wearing him down. He was surprised Sirius had lasted so long, if he was honest—sitting still and keeping out of trouble were certainly not traits he had been known for at school—but thirteen years in Azkaban would change anyone.

And he did _sort_ of have a point, anyway—though there had definitely been nothing in Lupin's working lunch with Eleanor last week, they had almost gone out when they'd first met, years ago, just after leaving school. But then James and Lily had died—and everything else that had gone with it: Pettigrew dead, or so he thought, Sirius framed for it all—his world had been turned on its head; going out with her had been the last thing on his mind. Whatever there had been between them—if there _had _been anything there at all, sometimes he still wasn't sure—had faded into nothing more than friendship, and even that had drifted away from them over the years.

So it had come as a pleasant surprise to find her working behind the scenes at _Flourish and Blots_, and perhaps the smile it had put on his face—and that she was still turning heads, twenty-five years later—had led Sirius to draw the obvious conclusion. Maybe there was something in it after all, and maybe there wasn't, but it buoyed his mood as he passed the day, cataloguing a crate full of books the Ministry had recovered from an unsuspecting Muggle household.

Late in the afternoon, leafing through a quaint book on divination that was entertaining even if it had little practical value in terms of instruction—Sirius's book put aside for closer examination that evening—he was startled by the loud crack of a phoenix feather apparating, falling gently to rest on the table in front of him. He barely remembered to snatch it up and dispose of the evidence in his haste to hang the _closed_ sign in the shop window and lock the front door, disaparating before the book he'd knocked from the table hit the floor.

And so a day that had started out like any other became a day like no other—except perhaps, a shadow of that awful Halloween fifteen years ago; the one that had started with the prophecy he found himself racing across London to try to protect…


	2. Chapter 2

— Chapter Two —

_Spy in the Camp_

It had been difficult, returning to Grimmauld Place that night. Molly Weasley had shut herself in the study and cried; the rest had sat in the kitchen, staring at the worn tabletop without seeing anything at all. It wasn't until Dumbledore returned in the early hours of the morning that the portrait of Mrs Black was silenced, howling and raging and screaming filth all night long. And through it all, Remus had sat at the foot of the stairs like a child sent out of the room.

And if Grimmauld Place had been hard, it was nothing compared to going home. Where Diagon Alley had once seemed bustling with life, it now felt hollow and empty, his little bookshop some vast cathedral of silence. That was why it had taken him so long to come back—putting off the inevitable moment when he would have to stop and let the world catch up with him again, and pick up the pieces.

The full moon had forced his hand in the end, not trusting himself to stay, even with the Wolfsbane Potion. His awareness of the world had slipped away as the moon inched over the London rooftops, and his last thoughts were of a hope to wake in the morning and find it had just been a dream. But it wasn't to be, and he was woken instead by blinding sunlight from a dream filled with distant, impatient hammering—only the knocking didn't stop when he sat up, confused and rubbing at his bleary, sun-dazzled eyes.

There was somebody at the door, he realised eventually.

The floor beside the fire—where he must have curled up to sleep in the night—was hard and unforgiving; he ached all over, and his body protested every step of the way downstairs, straightening his robes as he went. The knocking was interrupted only by periodic rattling of the door handle and calls in a voice muffled by glass and street noise. He wondered irritably which bit of _closed_ his impatient visitor didn't seem to understand.

"Yes? Oh—it's you," he struggled to open the door past the post that had piled up in his absence. Apparently that was as much of an invitation as was required; Eleanor squeezed through the gap and into the shop before Remus could gather wits enough to stop her.

"Where have you been? The shop's not been open in two weeks—there was a _brick_ through your window last night—have you called the Ministry about that yet?"

"I've been busy," was all he could manage in response, thinking, _was it as long as that?_ He couldn't remember enough about the days he'd spent at Grimmauld Place to be able to count them—and hard as he forced his tired mind to think, the details of appointments and meetings he must have missed were just as illusive.

"Apparently," she didn't sound convinced, looking from the untouched letters heaped behind the door, to the small avalanche of books showered in broken window glass, to Lupin's somewhat dishevelled appearance. Reluctant to explain, he turned away to collect the brick from amid the debris of books and glass. He screwed up the note wrapped round it and dropped it in the fire while she bent down to scoop up the post. As he took the brick away to join the others by the back door, she called out, "Listen, I came by last night but you weren't in—"

"You did what?" He was back in the doorway in an instant.

She frowned at the panic on his face, "Are you in some kind of trouble, Remus?"

"What? No." He wasn't listening; his stomach had turned over at the thought of her stumbling across him on a full moon—of the danger she'd be in, not to mention her reaction when she found out what he was. "You shouldn't come round here unannounced like that."

"Why? Do you walk round the place naked, or something?" she laughed at his seriousness. "Or is it a pet dragon in the basement—?"

Not smiling at all, he nodded, "A dragon—and it's particular about visitors."

"Remus—" she couldn't help laughing at his peculiar mood, shaking her head, then ventured, "Do you want to get lunch?"

"I'm not hungry." He caught himself before adding, _I think I ate last night_, trying not to think about what it might have been. It was a moment before he realised he'd said the wrong thing, the smile on Eleanor's face not quite covering the hurt at his abrupt refusal. He found himself wishing she would hurry up and leave—he hadn't the heart to keep up with anyone else's feelings right now, he just wanted to be alone.

"What's going on?" she frowned—he hid his own by turning to the mountain of post on the counter. Everything that had happened at the Department of Mysteries seemed too big for words to adequately explain—not that it mattered, he couldn't tell her anyway. But he wasn't about to lie.

"Try _mysteries_, 812.400 BON to 812.442 WIL."

She scowled. "And the brick through your window?" He directed her to spells for fixing and repairing damage and she hit back with, "Very funny—I didn't come here to talk about books, you know."

"Pretty stupid coming to a bookshop then, wasn't it?" he didn't look up from thumbing through envelopes, tossing some straight into the fire, opening others first, before discarding their contents or setting them aside for later.

"Well listen, since you're being like that," she sounded resigned to his odd mood, "I think I may have tracked down a copy of Norte's _Spells and Wizardry_—good condition, too."

"Hmm." He wasn't listening, holding a two-week-old copy of the _Daily Prophet_; unable to read the words—not that he needed to, he'd been there, after all—but unable to tear his eyes away from them either.

"God, Remus—who died and put you in this mood?" her grin vanished as the joke fell flat—a quiet, "Sirius," in answer from Lupin as he turned away, letting the newspaper fall into the fire, watching the flames lick around its curling edges before the pages blackened and were consumed entirely.

"But…" Eleanor struggled to voice her confusion. "He—he murdered your best friends—James and Lily _died_ because of him—and poor Peter Pettigrew." At the mention of Wormtail, Remus looked round sharply, the unfairness of everything that had happened ready to burst out of him—but he couldn't seem to find his voice. She said, "I…I don't understand," and all he could do was shake his head, and offer a miserable, "Sirius was innocent."

Doubt was written across her face, but there was nothing he could say—his mind racing with a thousand explanations, but no words; they didn't seem to be enough anymore.

"I know—you think I'm crazy—I…" But frustration got the better of him, "You know what? I can't deal with this right now—I've got that window to sort out, the museum wants that shipment by—by _yesterday_," he realised with a shock, reeling at everything he still had to do; he started rescuing books from the avalanche under the widow, "I'm behind—I'm really behind…"

"Deal with _what_, Remus?" she said sharply. He had a feeling he was expected to say something like, "You, me—_us_," but didn't; he was too tired to argue, and he couldn't see the point—it hardly seemed worth the effort. At his silence, she challenged, "Were you with someone else last night, is _that_ what this is about?"

"No—!" He bit back what had almost been an admission he wasn't prepared to make—it was enough to telegraph to her that he had stopped short; he had to say something more, but hardly knew where to start. "There are things you don't know about me."

She scowled a resentful, "And you think I wouldn't understand because I'm a squib."

"What? No! It has nothing to do with you being a squib, Eleanor," adding an exasperated, _women!_ in his mind, turning back to the books strewn on the floor at his feet. "I wasn't _with_ anyone last night," he said irritably, half a mind to throw that stupid book of Sirius's at her in explanation, shaking the glittering shards of broken window from it as he picked it up. _I've got other things on my mind right now_, he thought in his own defence—but knew better than to say as much out loud.

As he turned the book over a scruffy piece of parchment slipped out from the inside cover; he snatched it from of the air as it fell. His stomach lurched—it was a message for the Order. A voice somewhere in the back of his mind protested—it couldn't be, the book wasn't about exotic birds—even as he read the message scrawled in black ink: _there's a spy_, accompanied by a lop-sided Dark Mark and wobbly phoenix feather.

He had wits enough to palm the note before Eleanor saw it, but that was about his limit—he had a feeling he'd turned more than a little pale. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. Someone knew about Snape spying for the Order. His mouth was suddenly very dry, he managed a distracted, "I have to go—_you_ have to go," as he tried to think clearly about what he should do. He was hardly aware of her voluble protest as he herded her out the door and locked it behind her.

Dumbledore—he should tell Dumbledore at once—and Snape…if it wasn't already too late…he felt sick at the thought of the message going unread for two whole weeks—kicking himself for not even opening the cover of the book to be sure, instead of just assuming it was from Sirius—what a _fool_ he'd been!


	3. Chapter 3

— Chapter Three —

_Double-crossed_

"Thank goodness you're both here—" Remus burst into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. A dozen faces crowded round the table turned at the interruption. There was an awkward moment. If Remus hadn't been so distracted by his own carelessness, he might have thought more about the feeling that he'd just walked in on a discussion about himself.

"Remus," Molly smiled, pulling up another chair for him. "We didn't expect you back so soon, after—well, you know…" She had done an admirable job of disguising her disapproval of Dumbledore's trust in a werewolf, much as she'd suffered Sirius's undesirable friends and bad—if well meaning—influence, but sometimes her reluctance to confront the issue head-on betrayed her.

"What? Oh, no—" Now that he was here, Remus wasn't entirely sure what it was he'd planned to say. "Something's happened…important…um—I need to talk to you," the last was directed at Professor Dumbledore, and the fall in tone betrayed his uneasy sense of guilt. Those present seemed to take _alone_ for granted, and began leaving. Remus had to raise his voice to be heard over the scraping of chairs—and combined with his distraction, had to soften his initial, "Not you, Severus—" with a rather forced smile, "If you don't mind."

He waited awkwardly for the kitchen door to close behind Tonks, who was moving as slowly as she could, in the hope of overhearing something interesting. "This came to my shop two weeks ago," He pushed the book across the table. Snape gave a snort at the title. "There was a note inside—" he added quickly, suppressing the urge to lower himself to Snape's level and correct his obvious and mistaken assumptions. "I should have looked for one sooner—I didn't think to—there was the Ministry of Magic…Sirius…the full moon—and the shop—I should have checked—"

"And why didn't you?" Snape narrowed his eyes as if he was disciplining a disobedient student, not someone who, until recently, had sat beside him at the staff table.

"Where's the bird?" Remus demanded of him, gesturing at the book cover. "I though it was a joke from Sirius—" Dumbledore had to raise his hands to silence the two—and being stopped in his tracks was enough for Remus to see the full moon was fuelling his frustration.

"What did the note say?" Dumbledore asked patiently.

He took a breath—and stalled, looking away from Snape's disparaging gaze. "Here," he mumbled, producing the note instead. The headmaster examined it with polite interest; Snape's expression was more dangerous.

"Just like Potter," he spat, eyes flashing dangerously. "So wrapped up in your _girlfriend_ you can't see what's right in front of your eyes!"

"Now now, Severus," Dumbledore cut him off. "Lets not overdo things, there's been no harm done."

"Yet—!" he countered, more angry than Remus thought he'd ever seen him.

"How do you know about her?" was all he could manage in a stunned whisper. Even Sirius had barely known the truth. Snape laughed unpleasantly.

"Don't tell me you imagine they haven't been watching?" he sneered. There was no doubt he meant Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Remus swallowed—but he was as irritated by Snape's superior attitude as he was uneasy at the thought of being shadowed by Voldemort's spies. Of course he wasn't so naïve as to think You Know Who hadn't been watching them all—but Dumbledore quickly stepped in to mediate the silent war of thunderous looks.

"We must be vigilant," he said, looking at Snape as if to say, _be careful_. Remus felt a silent rebuke in it for his own carelessness, and offered what seemed like a hopelessly inadequate apology. A clock chimed somewhere in the house; Snape and Dumbledore exchanged a glance. "We must continue to act as if nothing has changed," he said decisively, and rose from the table. "Our apologies, Remus, but there is work to be done. I'm sure Molly would be delighted to have you stay for dinner."

Remus was too caught up in his own thoughts to protest, smarting that Snape had known exactly how to twist the knife, and worse—that he'd _let_ him do it so easily. He felt a fool. The last thing he wanted to do was stay to dinner, but Molly was having none of it.

"I promised I'd help Eleanor with that museum shipment," he lied.

"No!" Mrs Weasley squeaked. "I mean, don't—not tonight—it can wait till tomorrow, can't it? You look awful, Remus—and the children are back from school, Harry'll be down for dinner—you must stay and say hello to him."

"Okay, okay," he gave in, forcing a smile to cover the flood of emotion the mention of Harry brought with it—the look on Harry's face that night was frozen in his mind's eye, and he felt Sirius's death like a hammer blow every time he thought of it.

She fussed about the kitchen, preparing dinner, chatting away, oblivious to his unenthusiastic responses. Sometimes he wondered if she talked just to keep herself from having to think too much about painful subjects. He wished it was so easy.

It was Tonks that brought a genuine smile to his face, insisting, "It's alright, Molly—I haven't come to help with dinner," with a mischievous grin as she slid in beside him at the table, hinting at some fiasco he had missed out on the other night. She said, "Listen, can't stay long—working at the Ministry tonight. Here—" and pressed something into his hands. When he recognised the Gringotts key, he tried to protest. "Sirius wanted you to have it," she insisted. "Left the house and everything else to Harry, but he wanted you to have this—" she leant in to whisper, "And he said he knew you wouldn't want to take it, so I was to force it on you." She grinned, admitting, "I had a feeling you wouldn't want a fuss made." All Remus could manage was a weak, "Thank you," and she beamed.

Her smile faltered a little in sympathy for the sadness come over Remus's face as he looked down at the tiny golden key in his hand. But anything she might have said to cheer him up was cut off by the rather undignified entrance of an owl, tumbling down the chimney and onto the flagstones in front of the hearth. Remus thought it was black with soot, until it shook itself and there was no noticeable change in colour.

"I'd better tell Snape his owl's back," Tonks excused herself. "He's waiting for a signal, or something." It took a second to register with Remus, watching the raven-black owl settle itself across the room.

"S-snape? That's _his_ owl?" He was staring at the book, still sitting on the table in front of him.

"Who else would have one as evil-looking as that?" Tonks chuckled. "Kinglsey reckons it's not really an owl at all—just a raven, trying to pass itself off. Sounds right up his street, don't you think?" But Remus wasn't listening. "I'll see you later—Remus? Where are you going?"


	4. Chapter 4

— Chapter Four —

_Confrontation_

Before Molly or Tonks could stop him, Remus was in the hallway.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he demanded, catching Snape with his hand on the front door. "_You_ sent that note." _There's a spy…_ Snape's words chased the spidery handwriting round in Remus's thoughts—_just like Potter, so wrapped up in your girlfriend you can't see what's right in front of your eyes!—a spy—right in front of your eyes—your girlfriend—_He felt as if the world was dropping away beneath his feet. He had to swallow before he could find his voice. "That's where you're going now, to take care of her."

Snape's lips curled into a smile. "I gave you fair warning—if you're too stupid to see it, you deserve all you get—"

"_Fair warning?_" Remus hit back, furious. It was enough to wake Mrs Black, but he didn't care. He was speechless. He could barely _think_—Eleanor was the spy? _Eleanor_? But—she couldn't be! His mind raced through a hundred innocent explanations—mistaken identity, crossed wires, some terrible misunderstanding—

"_Where is he? Filth! You can't hide him from me forever! Blood traitors, vile creatures, how dare you! Return the rightful heir to the house of my fathers! Putrescent Mudbloods—_"

"Shut up you old hag, he's _dead_!" Remus rounded on the painting, and the stunned silence that followed his outburst was filled with looks of compassion from Tonks and Dumbledore that he refused to meet, too angry to snap at Molly's pleading, "It was to protect you, Remus—"

How many of them knew? Were they all in on it? He felt betrayal the likes of which he hadn't since James and Lily's deaths. And anger—he was so angry with himself—how could he have been so _stupid_? How did he not see it? How long had they known—had they been laughing at him all that time? How could he have let himself be played for the fool _twice_? But above all, he was furious with Snape, thinking bitterly that he'd sent the book to make a fool of him—to make it hurt all the more, for finding out that everyone but him had known the truth all along.

Finally, he understood why James and Sirius had hated him so.

"_I'll_ do it—and don't you dare stick your nose in any further, Snivellus, or it'll be the last place you ever stick it!" he vowed, heading straight for the fireplace.

"Remus—no," Tonks blurted, and withered at the ferocity of his glare.

"You always were fool, Lupin." Snape hissed. "She'll put you under an Imperius Curse and then you'll be someone else's fool."

"She's a squib!" he sounded desperate, even to himself—had that been another lie? The world was falling away from under him again, snatching at shreds of conversations, searching for _anything_ to cling to that might have been the truth. He wanted to tell them all they were making a terrible mistake…but words seemed so inadequate. "You have to let me—let me talk to her, at least! _Please_, Albus—" He couldn't meet Dumbledore's gaze—he didn't want the final confirmation.

"I must ask you not to go."

For a moment he didn't know what to do with himself. The hallway was too claustrophobic, forbidding architecture closing in—now he understood why Sirius had hated the house so much—he had to get away. The only exit open to him was the staircase, and he fled up it, finding sanctuary in the silence of the study, leaning back against the closed door.

He didn't know which felt worse—the _helplessness_, or having been played for an absolute fool. Part of him couldn't believe it—_wouldn't_ believe it until she said it herself—the rest of him was too afraid to get caught up in lies and deceptions, afraid to have his heart broken anymore than it already was. He didn't know what to think any more. He wasn't even sure whom he could trust; it felt like everyone had betrayed him a little in some way—from Tonk's silence to Molly's insistence he stay for dinner to keep him out of the way—even Dumbledore's words rang hollow to his ears, now that he realised the reassurance had been for Snape's benefit, not his own—

Anger boiled up inside Remus to think he'd been sick with worry for _Snape's_ safety in all this—wringing himself with guilt for having over-looked the note, thinking it had meant the Death Eaters had learned of a spy in _their_ camp—he'd been filled with wretched thoughts of raising the alarm too late. And now he was wondering if she'd been lie from the very start, all those years ago; had _anything_ between them been genuine? A bitter laugh broke free; he was a _fool_.

He took to pacing the study to distract himself from his own stupidity, but all it did was burn off the anger and leave the wretchedness behind, and he sank miserably into a chair, staring at the worn tapestry. He'd broken the sticking charm on it a week ago, but hadn't been able to bring himself to take it down. Somehow it had felt like rolling up the moth-eaten family tree would be erasing the Black family name from history, and he hadn't liked the thought that there'd be no one left to mourn their lost son and brother. It hadn't seemed fair.

Nothing seemed fair anymore when he thought of the friends he'd lost to Voldemort. And painful as they were, thoughts of Sirius were at least a distraction from what Snape and Dumbledore were doing at that very moment, somewhere in London.

He felt worn out, utterly spent—a wretchedness he couldn't describe; words weren't enough. It simply felt too big to be contained within him, and he was afraid there'd be nothing left of him once the grief was spent.

Footsteps outside the room broke in on his thoughts, and he turned, forcing a smile as the door opened.

"Hello, Harry."

"What was all that shouting about?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about," he lied—and caught the look on Harry's face that said he wasn't a child anymore—smiling darkly that Harry was probably the only one in the house that _hadn't_ been in on the deception. "Just…a conflict of interest with Severus," he admitted eventually, looking away from Harry's green eyes—his mother's eyes—that seemed to know it was much more than that. For a second Remus was caught thinking he was sixteen again himself, and it was James in front of him—and he had to turn away from the half-remembered conversations that came flooding back.

_It's not like you to be so vocal, Moony_, James would have prompted. He'd always been so good at reading the subtleties that Sirius's temper and impatience missed. He'd never have let Remus off without an explanation for his outburst, even one directed at Mrs Black—though that was where memory and imagination blurred; James had never been to Grimmauld Place—and however much Harry might look like his father, he wasn't…

Remus suddenly felt old, and alone.

"I'm sorry—" Harry offered, looking away, ashamed, when Remus met his eyes. "For getting your best friends killed." It was obviously something he'd been planning to say for a long time.

"Harry—" Lupin crossed the distance between them in a second, but was pushed angrily away as Harry turned his back, glaring at the tapestry.

"That's what you were all arguing about, isn't it?" he accused. "Ever since Sirius died it's all anyone's done—argue."

"No, it was nothing to—" but Remus stopped short, because, in so many ways, it _was_…if Sirius was still alive, he'd not have over-looked that book for two weeks—he'd have _known_ it wasn't from Sirius—he'd have found out the truth in time to do _something_ more than feel like the wizarding world's biggest fool… But it wasn't fair to blame anyone else for his own stupidity. "Harry, none of this is your fault."

"But it is!" he spun, and every wretched thought clogging up his heart tumbled out. "It was all my fault—I played right into Voldemort's hands…I should never have gone to the Ministry—I should never have stopped Occlumency lessons, I should have gone to see Snape again—you _told_ me to and I didn't—it's _my_ fault Sirius…" Remus didn't know what he could say—words weren't enough.

"Nobody blames you, Harry."

"Well you should," he looked down, fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper. "_I'm_ the reason James and Lily died, _I_ got Sirius killed—" he looked round, blinking fiercely. "_I'm_ the one he wants—it should …" His voice broke, offering no resistance this time as Lupin pulled him close. "It should have been _me_," he whispered, but Lupin gave a gentle "No, Harry."

"You—you're just saying that," he said miserably, wiping his face with sleeve.

"Absolutely not." Somehow, someone else's grief was easier to deal with than his own. "If you had died that night—instead of James and Lily—if…" Lupin stalled, the consequences of Voldemort escaping his fate all those years ago too terrible. He sighed, "They'd have died of a broken heart, they loved you so much. And Sirius—I…" He found himself groping for words; they simply weren't _enough_. Sirius was dead—and he was the only one left that had truly known him…and he couldn't find the words to tell anybody.

"It wasn't Azkaban that left him hollow," Remus said heavily. "It was losing his best friend—blaming himself for it every day he sat in prison, _hating_ himself for still being alive…you didn't know him before—these last few years the light was gone from his eyes, he wouldn't smile anymore—not the way he used to…Inside I think he was already dead." He was looking down, hands in his pockets. "You were the only thing that was keeping him alive."

And then it was gone with a sigh, a determined set to his face. "You have to finish what they started, Harry. You _must_." _Or everything will have been for nothing…_

Somewhere in London that night, Eleanor was being cornered by the Order of the Phoenix—and although the lie that was the girl he thought he'd known had died that evening with Snape's words, he knew it wouldn't make her trial at the Ministry any easier to bear.

— The End—


End file.
